Inbetween
by Lilly-Summer
Summary: She should know by now that bad habits always come at a price.


_There are things in your life you will live to regret - this is most certainly one of them_ she hears him whisper when she tears at her skin in the darkness, wishing she would never have lowered that weapon the one time it mattered. She let the opportunity to kill him slip and it was a bargain with the devil she got.

It's been five years since graduation and sometimes it still seems like the whole world is hers for the taking, just a brush of her fingertips away.  
But you can't turn back once you forget how to breathe.

She receives offer upon offer to leave the city behind, excuses ever so conveniently provided to her and when the sun rises she opens her eyes to watch the shreds scatter in the wind.

There's nothing that could make her run from the life she built herself and he, most certainly, would not either. It's only a matter of time until she finally gets to end this, the right way, on her own terms. So what if she forgets who she is once he touches her? So what if it takes him little effort to pull her under? She only ever comes back for so long, after all.

In the end, they fit like ill-matching puzzle pieces somebody had slammed together without regard towards the shapes.

* * *

The first time it's like the ground shakes and the world tilts a few degrees, one moment they're at each other's throats fighting, the next she tries to keep from gasping as he fucks her against the cold stone wall. Nobody can really say who started it but later she'd rub her skin raw in an attempt to wash away the guilt and all she can do is pretend it was _him. him. him._

She stands before the mirror to count the bruises she ought to have, her fingers ghosting across all the places he touched and her reflection is alight with excitement she's too numb to feel.  
But he would never own her and that knowledge might just be enough.

How do you stop? Running towards looming disaster at full speed?

They don't have a pattern just yet but he's always waiting for her when she seeks him out (one month into this he sends her black roses and she can almost imagine they're his hair when she watches them ignite. She never cut herself on his thorns but her skin is still burning).

And he's addicting but it's not the kind of pretty drug she'd like to tell her friends about. It's destruction, it's fire, it's the darkness in the corner of your eye.  
She tries not to choke on her own self-loathing when they ask her what's wrong, stops and only thinks _betrayal_.

At least he's doing her the courtesy of pretending to corrupt her when they both know there is nothing left in her soul to corrupt.

She's almost grateful.

* * *

The poorly-lit sidewalk swallows her up as she walks in those bad parts of Vale. When the sun goes down everything looks the same around here and it's only the noises that give her a sense of direction.

 _I'm not here for him_ she thinks as she holds onto Gambol Shroud tightly. Lying to herself has become a pastime over the duration of their messed up affair and there was nothing else here to offer her comfort.

Still, as the minutes tick by in silence and he seems nowhere in sight, relief is not what she feels. She tips her head back to soothe the anxiety rising in the back of her throat, staring into the starless night while once again pondering every single decision she made that led up to this point.

And when there's a sudden shift in the air, a pair of eyes lingering on her back that make her blood run cold and she turns around fast enough to make her vision swim, how could it still take her by surprise?

The first thing she sees is the end of his cigar glowing like embers in the dark.

The second thing she feels is guilt at the fact that the tension in her shoulders momentarily subsides. Somehow, her mind doesn't recognize him as a threat anymore and she should take this as a warning but there are more important things to focus on.

So there he stands tall in the white coat she loathes so much. She had fantasized of ripping it off of him (and strangling him with it) occasionally but there was never time. He's half-hidden by the shadows leaning against the wall and watching her, twirling his cane without a care in the world. The picture of arrogance.

She's disgusted with how much she wants him regardless.

He's malicious with a touch of death and she feels her heart rate accelerating, rapid little beats against her ribcage that she loses count of too easily. It is the thrill that attracts them like moths to flames and for a second, maybe, she doesn't regret a thing as the adrenaline pulsating in her veins pushes her to take another step.

His hair looks red in the evening light and she can feel her throat constricting. Memories flicker at the edge of her consciousness but she breathes in and there's just that faint smell of smoke and expensive perfume. It grounds her. He's more pleasant company than the dreams that keep her up at night.

His intentions are written all over his face but then subtlety has never been his strong point. No need when you've got the whole city do your bidding.

It doesn't take them long to take their turns. It's like a game of chess that way, she goes to war and he just steals her pieces one by one. He's got all his aces up his sleeve, he's king of the game but then what is a king to a brewing storm?

So what's left is the teasing, his baiting, pushing and shoving - it's his thing, that.  
Dangling her patience over the edge like a toy just out of reach. He needs her angry, at the point of breaking, abandoning the indifference she worked so hard to maintain, he wants all her hate, all of her temper and whatever remains of her dignity. He wants her when she loses control.

She grabs him by his scarf. There is nothing gentle about the way she treats him but then he wouldn't have it any other way.

He fucks her better than anyone else had before him and he's _shameless_ when she pushes him up against a wall in her rage. He's openly laughing at her but they've been at this for too long for her not to notice how he's licking his lips and how his taunting gaze turns darker in shade.

 _Do you touch yourself when you think of me, Kitty?_ He catches her fist before it can collide with his face and draws her closer. He's always so close. His hat lands on the pavement shortly after but he hardly seems to care.

If this was a passage in one of her books, there'd be pages upon pages of flowery language detailing how beautifully in love they are, but _face it, sweetheart, there are no happy endings for people like you and me_ ( _I'm nothing like you_ she screams in his face and he can taste the lie on her bleeding lips), this is ugly and desperate, this is fucking in dark alleyways shielded by the lack of moonlight.  
They're on top of the world. They're waiting for the crash.

She swears it to be a fever dream if only he didn't feel so real.

* * *

And there's always that moment after sex where they struggle to catch their breath, her forehead resting against his shoulder, his hand tangled in her hair and they can almost pretend -  
It ends as soon as it begins and she doesn't look at him when she yanks her body away, away, _away_ violently (and needlessly so), like she's been burned by sharing his space.

They're so far from love.

Before she leaves, she snatches his wrist and presses his fingers against her pulse as her heartbeat slows, to reassure him what this was about. A means to an end, nothing else. It has become a ritual to convince herself of her reasons for doing this and he never questions it, just looks at her through heavy eyelids. He never let down his guard around her but this is him at his most vulnerable and she curses herself for not taking advantage of it. What she would give to be able to end it like this.

He picks his hat off the ground and it looks so elegant the way he arranges it back onto his head she's almost offended by the act. For a moment, she's tempted to knock it off again but thinks better of it. She never noticed how good it looks on him and feels nauseous now that she did.

And she says „Never again" as he says „Until next time" while she digs her nails into the palms of her hands until it hurts. She doesn't want to admit how good his voice sounds joined with her own. His eyes are following her when she turns around to leave and with them, the uneasiness returns.

Blake lost count of all the _last times_ she promised him. Roman never kept track in the first place.


End file.
